


Infection

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash), UltimateFandomTrash



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, I don't really go into details about the rape, M/M, Sam Winchester Whump, Whump, and violent, but it's in here, so i'm tagging it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 01:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19307770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61, https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/UltimateFandomTrash
Summary: Sam gets raped by demons on a hunt, and he realizes he has to get tested for STIs.





	Infection

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a little different for me. Usually I like the non-con scenes. I do. I find the point when the trauma happens interesting because I don't understand the things that traumatized me. But I focus on the afterwards in this story. This is personal for me. Really, _really_ personal. My therapist told me to write this story. Why? Well, I got raped. Not recently, but two years ago. Yep. Two years ago. Almost the entire time I've been writing darkfic, so you can't really judge a book by its cover. And it wasn't till recently that I had the courage to get tested for STIs. It made me feel, well, like crap, and felt like a re-victimization, and was extremely triggering, so my therapist told me to write this story to deal with it. It's not the same as my experience, but it's honest about the emotions. Really honest. I wasn't even going to post this originally. So you're getting a glimpse into my inner thoughts with this one. Maybe some of you will be able to relate, and take something out of it, and if you do, I hope you can make it through this. Funny how it's easy to tell a bunch of strangers on the internet this (maybe because I don't see your faces). But here it is, part of my soul, I suppose. Treat it kindly, seeing as I need to learn how.
> 
>  **WARNING:** This story contains rape, violence, suicidal thoughts, and self-harm.

Sam didn’t know how it’d happened. There were demons, a lot of them, he’d gotten separated from Dean, and then…

They’d touched him.

They’d used him.

They’d gotten inside him: his mouth, his ass.

He’d managed to fight them off and exorcise them before Dean got to him, even managed to pull his pants back up and zip up his jacket to hide that some buttons had been ripped clean off.

There was blood.

There was cum.

Sam was dirty.

He worried Dean would know, that he’d smell it, but his brother was too heavily coated in demon blood to smell much of anything.

They got back to the bunker, Sam hurting and aching, but numb, and he knew he had to go to the doctor. They’d gotten in him, and he didn’t know where the vessels had been, who they’d been with, what the demons had been using their bodies for.

Sam could be sick.

He had to get tested, and all he could think was how gross he was, how stupid he was, how weak, and vile, and pathetic, and he was worrying how the hell he’d talk to a doctor about this.

“ _Well, Sam, why didn’t you make him wear a condom?_ ”

“ _Did you have him get tested?_ ”

“ _Did you talk about STIs before having sex?_ ”

_Didn’t mean it, didn’t mean it…_

_Didn’t want it._

“ _Hmph. Rape? You’re a man. You can’t get raped._ ”

“ _Look at you, you’re a monster, over six feet, two-hundred-twenty-five pounds. Who’d have the balls to rape you?_ ”

_Demons._

But then Sam worried about the chance of the doctor being into him.

“ _Look how gorgeous you are. That hair, those muscles. I’d rape you too._ ”

Sam knew his head was running away with the scenario as he showered, emptiness pounding away at his chest, blood and cum trickling down his thighs, his abused cock starting to bruise, but he knew what this made him: disgusting.

Sam was disgusting.

He’d been raped before, he’d been touched, harassed, heck, even given gonorrhea by a freakin’ witch, but demons raping him like this? Like they wanted to get back at him for the time he was their predator, and then like they couldn’t get enough of hurting his body? It was new.

Maybe Ruby had raped him — he was sure she had, but it hurt to much to think of. However, she’d been clean.

Lucifer had raped him. But that’d been Hell, and archangels didn’t have STIs.

Toni had raped him. Physically, she hadn’t touched him, but in his mind they’d fucked multiple times, but you didn’t get STIs from mind rape.

You could get them from rape, the action passing on its lowly evil into the body to be carried as an infection.

It’d been violent, bloody, dirty, in the basement of an abandoned home, of all places.

And now Sam worried that he carried the filth within him.

He finished washing up, burning himself with the water and nearly wanting to scrape his skin off, and then limped to his room.

He stayed there for a couple of days, lying to Dean that he had the flu. He came out at night to get some food and water, when his movements wouldn’t be observed. It was slow and painful. Walking, sitting, rolling over, using the bathroom (even just to pee) hurt, and opening his mouth to brush his teeth made his jaw ache.

But eventually he began physically healing and that’s when he went to the next town over to get tested, a black pit in his stomach trying to eat all that he was.

Sam hated filling out the forms, hated talking to the secretary who he wanted to growl at for smiling (how could anyone be smiling when he could be walking with _RAPE_ inscribed inside of him?), and he hated waiting.

The waiting took the black pit in him and filled it up with hot dread that gave him goosebumps even as he began to sweat. He kept tapping his feet, finding himself biting his fingernails, and now he was pacing.

He did that for a bit until a security guard told him in a kindly, but stern, voice, “Sir, could you please have a seat?”

Sam forced a smile onto his face and raised his hand in apology, taking his seat. “Right, sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Yep.”

Eventually, his name was called, “Sam Campbell.”

The nurse wasn’t horrible. She took his height, his weight, remarked that he seemed to be keeping himself healthy (if only she knew how little he slept, how much he drank, the brief stint on demon, and the food he sometimes didn’t eat), took his blood pressure (it was high, and he explained he was anxious), and she took his temperature.

“So what brings you in today?” she asked.

Sam looked down at his legs dangling off the exam table, and pressed his hands together, rubbing them. God, Dean didn’t even know he was here.

“Uh…” Well, that was a way to begin. He fumbled a bit, mouth opening and closing, corners of his eyes stinging, and he stared at the nurse’s legs, which he couldn’t well discern the shape of in her scrubs. “I want to get tested for STIs.”

There was some typing as she put notes into the laptop.

“Do you have a PCP you could see for this?”

He shook his head, sniffled, trying in vain to hold back his tears and the aching ruin he felt inside.

“No, I uh… no.”

“And were you planning on being sexually active?”

Sam shook his head. “No.”

He now looked up, meeting her gaze for a few seconds. She had kind eyes, a brown that he could fall into, but he turned away.

She pushed the cart aside that the laptop was on and slowly took a few steps closer, hands clasped.

“Usually, Sam, we have women who come in here asking for this sort of thing like this, and maybe I’m reading you wrong, but do I have to report this to the police?”

Sam’s heart stopped and he found himself moving backwards on the exam table, eyes wide.

“No, no. It’s uh, it’s fine. Just need testing.”

“You do know I’ll have to ask some very blunt questions.”

He nodded.

“Alright.” She resumed her place in front of her laptop, and asked, “Are you sexually active?”

“Uh, yes, I guess. Unfortunately,” he got out.

“Any partners besides…?”

“No,” he answered quickly. “God no.”

“Okay, well. I’ll send my notes to the doctor, and he’ll be in to see you in a few minutes.”

Sam couldn’t muster up a _thank you_ so he forced a smile on his face as the nurse left.

Waiting for the doctor was even worse than sitting in the waiting room. At least there he could pretend he was normal, but now he was trapped, a doctor on his way to send him for tests that would find the truth of his impurity.

The room was small, mostly painted in various shades of brown, and was a sharp, antiseptic smell, and the counters felt like they were closing in on him. Sam looked around at the various signs and posters on the walls, and a lump caught in his throat when he saw one showing a woman in a lab coat, a stethoscope about her neck, her arms were crossed, and her dark hair was in a braid over her shoulder. She was _smiling_ , and next to her pleasant face were the words “Sexual Assault can happen to ANYONE.” Beneath it were various numbers for support, and information about rape exams, but Sam sat there, heart stuttering in his chest.

Sexual assault.

Rape.

He’d been raped.

Gross.

Sam was gross.

_I’m gross._

_I’m disgusting._

He jumped when there was a knock on the door, and then the doctor came in. Sam at least felt good that he was taller than the doctor, but he had a hard, stern face, and gray eyes.

“Dr. Reed,” he introduced himself, shaking his hand, making Sam tense.

“Sam.”

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” he said, taking a seat, and placing his laptop on his lap.

Sam couldn’t give him the same greeting, wanting to pull himself deep into his jacket and hide.

“What brings you in today?”

He started, trying to keep his tone as casual as possible, “I want to get tested for STIs.”

“That’s pretty smart. Got anyone special in your life?”

“Uh, no,” he got out, looking away, but trying to keep his head up.

“So what’s your sexual history for the past year?”

“Wasn’t having sex till a couple days ago, and then uh… I…”

“It’s okay, Sam, I’ve heard it all.”

Still, Sam couldn’t answer.

“Did you use a condom?”

There it was, the question he’d been waiting for, and Sam wanted to get up, wanted to snap, “No, I was a little busy getting raped,” but he didn’t, he held it in as a tight ball in his chest and throat.

“No. I um…” Sam licked his lips, the horrid taste of demon flesh filling his mouth, making him feel sick. “I was _raped_.” The word came out with emphasis, low, and gravelly, like doom was falling upon him. He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, but he had, and now there was no taking it back.

Dr. Reed closed his laptop, brought the chair forward — why did they have to come forward when being comforting? Sam just wanted to be hiding away in his room, far from anyone.

“Sam, there are resources for victims—”

Victim.

_Victim._

That’s what he was.

A hunter, but a victim.

And he knew how to fight too.

Pathetic.

Would he have felt better if the doctor had used the word _survivor?_

Probably not.

What had he survived?

What was he now?

Gross.

“No,  just the testing,” he managed. “I don’t wanna dig into this. Just kinda want to forget, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” he agreed calmly. “But I think trauma has a way of coming back to us. You can’t bury it.”

He tried. With hunting he tried. Couldn’t stop to think about his agonies when there was always something to hunt down and kill, or someone to take care of. Sometimes it even breathed life into him, made him not want to die for a splendid couple of minutes, or days, or weeks, or even months if he was lucky.

But maybe one day it’d all crash and burn.

Hopefully today wouldn’t be the day, not with this testing.

“I got a good coping skill,” Sam lied.

“Oh yeah?” Dr. Reed asked with a smile.

“I go hunting every once in awhile. Do some MMA with my brother too.”

“You gonna tell your brother about this?”

“Nah,” Sam answered easily, but then paused to give it more thought. Dean. No, he couldn’t. “He’s not built for it. Couldn’t handle hearing his baby brother got hurt.”

“My older brother is exactly the same way,” Dr. Reed responded as he typed away at his laptop and then clicked on a few things. “Just doesn’t know when to stop protecting me.”

“I hear you.”

One final click, and Dr. Reed said, “Alright, the nurse will be in to give you the blood slip, and the bottle for the urine sample. The bathroom is down the hall, second door on your right, and the lab is downstairs. Test results should be in later in the week. You’ll get a call from us. And we’ll go from there, see if you need another appointment.”

“Thanks, doctor,” Sam said, not reaching out his hand, showing him he was uncomfortable with touch.

“Remember, there are resources. You’re not alone.”

Tears stung at his eyes and all he could do was nod.

The nurse gave him the blood slip, and the bottle for the urine sample once the doctor left, and it still hurt to pee. There was the awkwardness of it, and the shame that it could speak of infection, but then he went downstairs to get his blood drawn.

Sam could handle needles. He could.

But talking to the lab techs as if everything was fine? That he couldn’t do.

There were questions about what brought him in, what he was doing after, where he worked — all things he brushed off, to the point where they thought he was nervous. So they walked him through it, which was demeaning, and they _chatted_ about the tests. Logically he knew they had to at least discuss them so they could get the right amount of blood, but the casual way in which they went about their work horrified him. Sure, it made sense. They drew blood from hundreds of people. They couldn’t get personal, or emotional.

But Sam was buried in excruciation with no way out, and these people were poking and prodding at his pain, examining it, only to then give him a clinical diagnosis of how disgusting he was.

It seemed a long while before it was over.

 

Sam hunted the next few days, alone. He made himself forget about the tests, made himself forget about the rape. He still had bruises, still ached, still burned himself in the shower at night, and flinched at sudden movements and loud noises, but he hunted.

Hunting was coping, right?

It was evening, and he’d just beheaded a vamp when his cell started ringing.

Thinking it might have to do with the case, Sam picked up.

It was the doctor’s office.

His machete fell from his hand, and he had to lean against the wall to support himself.

_Dirty._

_Dirty._

_Dirty._

They were going to tell him he was sick, disgusting, gross.

“Sir?” The sharpness to the  secretary’s voice showed she’d been trying to get his attention for some time.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m here.”

“So your test results came back.”

He licked his lips, barely daring to breathe. The blackness in him was pulsing and oozing.

Funny how he could take out a nest of vampires, but this phone call felt like a hand was squeezing his heart and trying to rip out his insides.

“They all came back negative.”

_Negative._

Then why did he feel so wrong inside?

“Negative? You’re sure?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“And nothing needs to be retested?”

_You’re disgusting. You’re disgusting. You’re disgusting._

“Nope. Dr. Reed looked them over, and he’s glad there’s no sign of infection, and you don’t need another appointment, but if there are problems you can always come back in.”

Sam hardly remembered getting out a “thank you” or a “bye,” and he slipped his phone into his pocket with numb fingers.

_Disgusting._

_Gross._

_Dirty._

No STIs, yet Sam stood there, alone, black ooze in his core, feeling, without a doubt, infected.


End file.
